


we were wealth

by undermyskin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, extremely pleased with it, no longer faithfully awaiting Eskel's casting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undermyskin/pseuds/undermyskin
Summary: And there it was again, the strange emotion; the itch at his stomach, gnawing at his insides, foreign but not entirely unfamiliar. Eskel was no church boy – he knew lust and he knew temptation, but this – this was something else entirely. Triss was danger in livery of innocence, and her eyes were as soft as they were cutting. It was all the more made perilous by the fact that she was obvious about it – she often wore that duality proudly; something he had initially failed to account for when he watched her back in the Keep. He had always been careful not to get too close, respecting her, recognizing that she was not like many other mages, yet in many ways he’d realized she was exactly the same.“Careful, Merigold,” he warned, pointedly using her last name, his voice stripped of humor. “Don’t push it.”
Relationships: Eskel/Triss Merigold
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43





	1. fearing the release

**Author's Note:**

> This combines elements from all the canons but is also not accurate at all.
> 
> Just a completely self-indulgent timeline and plot.
> 
> Enjoy :).

Triss Merigold, Eskel had briefly thought, seemed much more pleasant than Yennefer of Vengerberg.

At first, it had been nothing short of baffling to him, how Geralt had picked trouble, cruel eyes and scathing tones over soothing smiles and gentle fingertips.

Sure, Yennefer was by all accounts an attractive woman – dazzling even – and of course she and Geralt shared history so complex that even Jaskier’s darned ballads could not do justice.

Himself and Yennefer had only ever barely gotten along; the raven haired witch had managed to get the better of Lambert once or twice, but Eskel stood strong and casually indifferent against her well-aimed snide remarks.

His Witcher expertise did not suffice to discern what crooked stick was so far up that woman’s arse to make her be so bitter and cold towards anyone who wasn’t Geralt or Ciri. But it did suffice to tell him one thing – he ought to ignore her rather than engage with her. Scuffles with mages were the last item on his wish list.

Other things with mages though… other things he would not be so readily opposed to.

Because the curly-haired, doe-eyed mage by the name of Triss Merigold had been all pearly teeth and freckled crinkles around playful eyebrows. She had shown up one dawn, like a seasonal bird, raising up a storm that might not have been visible to the naked eye, but had been palpable in his gut regardless.

In the old, rotting fortress of Kaer Morhen, such fresh faces and heady perfumes did not come by too often.

So when, by accident more than anything else, Eskel chanced upon her presence, he firstly thought her a wicked dream, or a deadly foe. A trap well-set, right in the heart of the Witchers’ lair.

She was dressed in a high lady’s clothing; a rich, deep burgundy cloak held together by a golden emblem resembling a tree and golden links for earrings under her tresses.

But much to his surprise, at the sight of him – what a dreadful, dreadful sight that must have been to the likes of her – the woman had batted her eyelashes, patted down her cloak to shake off the last of some clingy autumn leaves and had stared right through his _soul._

“Greetings, Witcher,” she had stated, her lips wrapping around the words gracefully, regally – Eskel had quickly realized she was from the tips of the tops of wherever she came from and whatever she did. “I am Triss Merigold of Maribor. Advisor to King Foltest of Temeria.”

Silence came first – such was his confusion, much to his chagrin – and then followed a small, playful lift of her brow, an accompanying smirk at his expense.

Triss Merigold, Eskel had thought, who was standing right in front of him for the first time, and of whom he had heard so much about yet had never had the opportune moment to meet, was definitely much more pleasant than Yennefer of Vengerberg.

...

“Do you dance, Lambert?”

Ciri was in one of her moods again. Those slightly childish, curiosity-fueled moods that could drive a sane man to total madness.

Eskel smirked subtly as he heard a very un-ladylike snort leave Triss’s lips from the wooden table a few feet away from them. She took a bite of her apple as she leafed through some of Vesemir’s old parchments absentmindedly.

Lambert’s eyes narrowed and he shot a glare at her. Then, completely unbothered again, he turned to Ciri and wagged his eyebrows. “Sure I do, kid. I’m really good at it too.”

Eskel, busy polishing one of his boots, raised a brow, interested to see where this was going. With Lambert, there was always a punchline.

“Really?” Ciri uttered both in wonder and doubt.

“Well, all the ladies sure do enjoy my dance in the-”

“Are you particularly interested in the topic Cirilla?” Triss quickly interrupted, struggling not to sound alarmed, probably mentally teleporting Lambert to a Waterhag’s lair. “Dancing, I mean?” She dropped her readings on the table and extended a palm to Ciri, inviting her to sit next to her, away from Lambert.

He shrugged and grumbled something under his breath, taking another swig of his drink.

Ciri’s face contorted at the sound of her full name, but she quickly recovered, taking a seat next to the sorceress. “I don’t know. Was just wondering, I guess.”

“Wondering what?” Vesemir’s asked roughly, approaching them.

Despite the currently calm atmosphere between them (discounting the deadly looks occasionally exchanged between Lambert and Triss), things had been very tense and high-strung since the mage had arrived.

She had brought a sense of reality with her, looming over every second they shared with Ciri, inescapable.

They had mostly welcomed it, even begrudgingly, because it was better than blindly and recklessly raising a child full of empty dreams and false hopes of mighty adventures. But its constant presence had been taxing nonetheless.

“If she could have a dance with you.” Eskel stated, deadpan, thinking it had been way too long since he’d had some fun at the old man’s expense.

Vesemir’s stride – Gods forbid – _faltered,_ and his eyes shifted, in thinly-veiled shock, between all of them, unsure of what to say. Ciri cried out a “hey!” and hastily stumbled over her own words trying to discredit Eskel’s words.

“N-no I-” she narrowed her eyes, “absolutely not, I was just asking Lambert if he could- and then-”

“I don’t… I don’t dance child-”

“Uncle Vesemir I _didn’t_ want to dance with you! I mean not because it’s you or anything- I just-”

“ – but I mean if that’s something you feel like you- well something you need-”

It was chaos unleashed, Vesemir and Ciri talking over each other, Lambert hiding mirthfully behind his mug and Triss, with disbelief in her eyes and a hand on her forehead, fighting off a smile as she shook her head at Eskel.

Vesemir was staring at her, seemingly trying to figure out if this was another one of those princess-y things they ought to be teaching Ciri, but Triss was already desperately failing to keep a straight face.

The sudden, loud laugh that burst out of her breathed life into the room, getting even Lambert to join her in a sniggering fit.

The old man had never looked so uncomfortable in all the time he had known him.

And Eskel hadn’t felt so content in weeks.

For a moment, reality went away.

...

“I will not hear another word of it, Geralt,” Merigold’s voice was usually light and feathery, especially when she used her dulcet tones on Geralt, but on this dark morning, it sounded more like the crack of a harsh whip.

Eskel kept a keen ear out for the argument which was sure to follow, but his hands never strayed from sharpening his blade.

They had been doing a lot of that lately; arguing and bickering about Ciri’s training and whatnot. Eskel had grown weary of it, though admittedly not as much as Lambert had – probably willing to shove Triss off of one of the towers if he could.

They were not used to being bossed around like this by a woman – much less a woman like Triss. Eskel had quickly learned there was much more to her character than anyone could possibly assume at first glance.

Much more than just sharp wit and fond, exasperated looks. If Yennefer was explosive fire, Merigold was a storm incarnate, waves swelling steadily and slowly, until the wall of water built so high that when it finally crashed, none of them stood a chance against it.

None of them stood a chance against _her_. If he weren’t so bloody impressed, he ought to have been embarrassed.

“Triss.” Geralt stated, his gruff voice stern and exasperated. “She wants to go. No one is forcing her to do it. She’s been wanting to race for a while. She’ll be devastated if we tell her no now.”

“And all of _you_ will be devastated when something goes awry and she ends up with her bones broken in some lowly fork on the road by the hill.” Triss hissed, her tone venomous. Eskel was certain the storm was brewing – Geralt need only poke at her patience her a bit more before she doomed them all.

“What if she felt ready to fight a Striga, Geralt? Or… or a Vukodlak? Would you let her have a go at it merely because it would upset her to say otherwise? What kind of logic is that?”

Eskel heard a scoff and the sound of swords clanging with each other, probably upset at Geralt’s back by forceful movement. He tensed, deliberating on whether to interfere, or let it all play out.

“Don’t patronize me, Triss,” Geralt said curtly, angrily. “We might not be perfect parental material – as you’ve made sure to point out several times already – but we would _never_ let her do something we didn’t think she could handle. We’ll all be there, riding with her. This is nothing like fighting a fucking Striga-”

“And yet there you were, just some weeks ago, pushing her so hard you might as well have been preparing her to pledge for knighthood!”

“Triss, lower your voice. I don’t want to fight you on this. I just thought you should know it will happen, sooner or later. I respect her enough to afford her a little autonomy. Arguing with me won’t change how she’s made up her own mind.”

“She’s a child! She barely has a mind to make!” Triss finally shouted, and Eskel decided to move, closer to the main gate, where he could see the situation escalating.

Triss, with her eyes clouded over from disbelief and a hand extended in frustration, staring down Geralt, with his lips pursed, his cheeks sucked in and his hands in fists.

Not even the finest Elven sword could suffice to cut the tension between them, that much was abundantly clear. So he didn’t know what it was that overtook him, despite all the warning signs and his own better knowledge, to utter a word, to think that _he_ could be sharper than that Elven sword.

“Triss will you just-”

“A bit louder, you two,” Eskel cut Geralt’s incoming slew of nonsense short. “Wager the Skelligers haven’t heard you yet.”

He was probably more surprised himself at his own interruption than the two were, their heads snapping to look at him with equal measures of confusion and irritation fueling their expressions. Eskel betrayed no emotion, however.

He ran a rough hand over his face and looked out towards the training dummies, where Ciri was busy trying to perfect undercuts under Lambert’s supervision. He sighed. “Triss is right. Perhaps we should think twice before taking Ciri on horseback across Gwenllech so soon.”

“Finally! At least one of you has some sense left in them-”

“Though there’s naught to stop us from doing the competition on foot.”

Just as fast as Triss Merigold’s eyes had lightened up in vindication, they dimmed again, something akin to incredulousness taking over her delicate features. She pinched the bridge of her nose and turned away, presumably muttering curses to the sky.

Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “On foot? Doubt she’d find that exciting.”

“Sure she would,” Eskel pressed on, raising the blade he’d been working on against the glare of the sun. “We just need to make it sound like it is.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, chancing a sideways glance at the mage.

Pleased with the shine, Eskel sheathed the sword and crossed his own arms, also turning to Triss.

She was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, hands settled on her hips and eyes cast towards the ashen-haired devil by the dummies.

Her gown, a deep shade of magenta, was dancing around with the slight wind and some of her hairlocks had escaped her tight bun, betraying the distress of her movements.

“She’s not like any other kid. You know that.” Geralt stated, his voice a bit gentler this time, though still with an edge of warning to it. “We should let her have this, Triss.”

Her back to them, her eyes didn’t stray from Ciri.

Triss Merigold, the Fourteenth of the Hill. A woman old enough to have known of many troubles this world can put upon a person, yet too young a sorceress to have dealt with most of them.

Eskel would lay odds on how much this meant for her – staying in Kaer Morhen, taking care of Ciri, aiding Geralt in his efforts to fulfill destiny and so on. She had poured her soul in every minute spent with the girl; and her heart in all the ones spent with Geralt.

Sometimes he wondered if Geralt saw it too, and if that’s why he averted his gaze every now and then, because it was frightening how Triss Merigold laid herself bare in front of them every day without actually taking any clothing off.

Just one week and a few fortnights after she’d settled in the guest room, traces of her perfume were already lingering in the hallways and the clicks of her heels echoed in the courtyard where she sometimes watched Ciri and Geralt mess around.

Around that time, one cloudy evening, Lambert had leaned over his dirty mug and scoffed, dryly. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather listen to Yennefer’s fucking fits in here than have to witness Merigold’s lovesick gazes one more day. Girl can’t seem to get the bloody hint.”

He had made nothing of it then, though he knew it mostly to be true, no matter how inelegantly Lambert had put it.

Triss’s eyes were teetering the line between fond and lovelorn every time they fell on Geralt, and despite Eskel not knowing what – if anything – had transpired between them, he knew she bred feelings for him.

He also knew she deeply cared for Ciri, and the bond between them was growing stronger by the day.

But right then, small as Triss looked between two Witchers and against the backdrop of the towers, the mountains and the _world,_ Eskel knew not only that Lambert was right, but that in his little ill-spirited rant the latter had managed to tap into one of her biggest weaknesses; the warmth of her heart spilled over onto each word she uttered, each action she took.

She was as transparent as pure lake water, and though as Witchers they were renowned for their straightforwardness and brevity, perhaps they were not fit for such silent, nude honesty as this one.

Maybe, even, that was why Geralt yearned for Yennefer, a woman who, Eskel imagined, even at her most intimate had to be holding something back, at least some bits and pieces yet undiscovered.

Maybe Geralt preferred not seeing the full weight of one’s emotions over being forcefully confronted with it, every day, without fail.

And maybe, just maybe, Eskel’s own preference differed.

“I will come with.” Triss stated in a low voice, posture resigned but tone determined all the same. There was no space to argue further. She had no choice but to compromise and she knew it, but she was clearly resolute in making their little activity as foolproof as possible by being there.

Geralt’s eyes flashed with surprise for only a second before his face quickly rearranged itself to calculated blankness. He nodded curtly to her, then Eskel, and walked away with heavy steps.

A few beats of silence stretched between the two of them remaining in front of the gates, Triss still staring away, towards Ciri, and Eskel staring at _her,_ appraising her.

The sky was opening up slightly, and slivers of light painted her face a golden sheen. No two ways about it – she was beautiful; more attractive than even the most well-groomed countesses put together.

When she eventually directed her attention over her shoulder towards him, she stared at him sharply from under her eyelashes, with disarming emotion pooling in her eyes.

Perhaps it wasn't weakness, but strength. 

“If anything happens to her, I will _flay you alive_.” Her heart was showing in her voice again.

Eskel selfishly basked in it. He nodded to concede the warning. He was never one to shy away from confrontation. In fact, he sought it out, just as he was seeking out the intensity of her feelings now, taking it all in, allowing it to grow and spread out in the air surrounding them. Geralt had ignored it for too long and it had built up within her, constrained and neglected.

But he was not Geralt.

He could handle the storm.

...

At the far end of the stream, over by the jagged rocks covered by a mix of water and snow, Triss rested her back against a tired old tree and exhaled a long sigh for the umpteenth time in the last hour. Her hair was whipping about and her hands were crossed over her abdomen, clutching at her upper coat more tightly, securing some semblance of warmth.

Eskel dutifully ignored her.

She looked like an illusion misplaced in a scenery so derelict as this; the colors of her clothes too vibrant for the lifeless wilderness and her olive-toned skin too smooth for the harshness of the wind.

At times he caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye and had to blink twice, snap his neck to the side and check if she were indeed still there, still _real._

They had been walking on this trek for some time now. Eskel had carefully settled on a path a few days ago – thinking ahead of how far off the river beasts would nest for the winter, taking stock of their supplies and predicting morale.

Somehow, he had just known that Triss Merigold, a royal court advisor, would not take too excitedly to camping out in the wilderness in the midst of heavy storms and muddy soil.

He decided on straying wide enough of Gwenllech to avoid any unfortunate run-ins with necrophages but not too far – so that wouldn’t lose track of where they were.

His calculations and management of resources had not been slipshod; at least of that he could be certain.

Yesterday, though, in an unexpected turn of events, the sorceress had marched ahead resolutely, cutting through a thicket of cedar trees and making way towards the river. Eskel had followed her curiously for about two hours, until they reached the edge of the cliff, where if he looked down and away, he could see the river clearly.

Triss, had been staring out towards the horizon as well, but then, as suddenly as before, she had bent down and placed her feet on a protruding rock just beneath where they were standing.

Going down the cliffside rocks in a manner so unlike a lady of her caliber that Eskel had briefly considered just letting her do it, if only to enjoy the uncharacteristic behavior for a moment longer.

Briefly.

“Headed somewhere?” Eskel had asked, lowering himself down with arms on his knees, an amused glint playing at his eye but his voice laced with enough sarcasm to halt Triss’s movements.

Merigold, who’d been fumbling with a particularly nasty rock at her feet, had looked up and mustered a smile so caustic Eskel thought he felt his skin itch under his armor.

“For a swim,” she had replied, deadpan, and dropped the act altogether. They hadn’t been high up enough in altitude for her to meet her end if she fell, but indubitably, she could have broken a bone or two – which would have been an experience just horrific as humorous, if Eskel were being honest.

Alas, Triss Merigold, a bundle of revelations and juxtapositions well-hidden under garments fit for queens, descended down the cliffside slowly for a minute longer, then, with a leap, as if she had been hoping around in the meadows of Toussaint and not about to fall over from the force of the wind, landed on her hands and feet at the lowest point of the valley, not too far from the river.

She had straightened up, stared off into the distance again and dusted off her clothing.

“I prefer this view,” she had stated. And before Eskel had had the chance to reply (that, for example, he’d much prefer not dying), she had nodded her head to herself, and set off again, unperturbed.

So there they were, a day later, trudging through rocks, dirt and grass, a bit of snow, and an atmosphere so heavy with tension and pending questions that Eskel wondered if they would both make it through this unscathed.

Truth be told, he felt sidelined, not privy to whatever was going through the woman’s head but respectful of her enough (or was it something else? Eskel cast the thought aside) to keep to himself.

Though he wasn’t the most intellectual person in the Continent, Eskel was perceptive; and lately had a knack for tuning into Triss’s silences, reading the lines between her brows and the nervous motions of her hands.

He was aware of just how much time she dedicated to thinking (of what, remained unclear, though he had some ideas), to the point where she would spend herself, silent and eerily calm, until, at night, her crown of hair hit the soft makeshift pillow Eskel carried with him and she became dead to the world.  
  
All this thinking, Eskel figured, could not have randomly led her to jumping down a cliff and trotting off by the riverside.

He knew this; he was merely irked by the fact that she would rather let him believe that instead of informing him of her true intentions.

For someone that was so awfully tactless at hiding her emotions, Triss was sure as heck adept at keeping her schemes well under wraps.

It was disconcerting, and perplexing.

They were, after all, meant to get through this competition together – after Lambert had ever so bluntly stated he would rather “suck a troll off” than cross the valley with the sorceress at his side.

Most certainly, the sentiment was reciprocated, though Triss would never dare be so crude. She had settled for a bat of her eyelashes, a short, scathing smile, and a nod.

Vesemir was with Ciri and Geralt… well Geralt had been avoiding the conversation altogether. Triss had also carefully tiptoed around the notion of joining Geralt, leaving Eskel to put the both of them out of their misery by volunteering to take her with him.

He always had been quite skilled at self-sabotage.

Because that was what he had done. He had, quite frankly, fucked himself over, managing to both overestimate the simplicity of his relationship with Triss, _and_ underestimate her affinity for secrecy and contemplation; two things that were clearly prerequisites to being a mage.

And what had he expected of her anyways? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure why he was working himself up just then, thinking of all the ways this trip could have been different and more pleasantly ordinary for him.

Thinking of how if he were alone, he could just push through the forest at his own pace, placated by the familiar sounds of the harsh, untamed nature.

He could even stray a bit; chance a hunt, maybe watch a wolf pack from behind the cover of a thicket of branches, and marvel at the magnitude of life surrounding him.

He could even sit and think (because, yes, _he_ could do that too) about how comforting it was to know, for a fact, that one day he would probably die unprettily and without glory, caked in blood and sword hanging off his side, but the world would keep spinning.

This very valley, uncaring as always for such insignificant matters, would always remain so unkempt and inexplicably beautiful, long after his lifespan. If he were alone, Eskel could just linger here, no real stake in winning the competition or in anything, really; simply put, he could just _be._

But how could he be, when instead, Triss Merigold of Maribor, a woman who had waltzed into their lives and stirred up a storm before even the calm had had the time to settle after Ciri’s arrival, imposed her presence on every inch of negative space around him and over him and _in_ him?

Eskel was feeling it; every time she regarded him with soundless intrigue or exaggerated irritation. A strange, growing emotion he could not put into words but wanted to choke the life out of.

...

“Eskel,” she whispered, one night (the fifth and final night). “Let’s not wake early tomorrow.”

He frowned, scratching at some growing scruff on his cheek, and glanced at her from across the fire. “If we do, we can make it to the flag by afternoon,” he said. “We can win.”

“I know.”

Eskel let his hand fall back over his knee. “But?”

“Let’s not.” Triss’s skin was glowing next to the flames. Her hair, tidily placed in a bun, had seemingly taken a different tint for the night, and in her eyes, he could see not only reflections of the dancing embers, but the entire sky as well.

She looked ethereal.

She looked devious.

“Allowing her to win will only do her a disservice, Triss. Witchers win fair and square,” he finally said, gruffly, catching on. So this was why they had been zig-zagging between the river and the cliffs.

This was what Triss had been deliberating on; her grand scheme. She had wanted to waste time, she had been doing as much calculating as he had, but for entirely different reasons.

Damned witches.

Triss smiled, a slow, conspirational smile then, tilting her head and staring at him with intent.

She said nothing more of the morning, but her hands, extended towards the fire, went to her hair, where she released it from its tight confines and allowed it to trickle over her shoulders. She started threading her fingers with the ribbon which had been holding it together, until she ran out of fabric, and then proceeded to do it all over again, like a game.

She was still looking at him.

“I fear you’ve grown too smart for your own good, Eskel,” she mused, playfully. “It’s inconvenient.”

Eskel, not one to be easily unnerved, stared back. “Do you plan on slitting my throat and using my body for ancient rituals in the woods?”

At that, she quirked a well-defined brow and paused her movements.  
  
“Is that what you think sorceresses do?” She asked, her voice shifting, lowering. Eskel couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him. “Trap weak, unsuspecting men and then have their wicked way with them in the forest?”

Eskel scoffed. “I’m hardly weak.”

“Nor unsuspecting,” Triss offered, her eyes mirthful. They were burning holes through his resolve. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re not averse to the idea.”

And there it was again, the strange emotion; the itch at his stomach, gnawing at his insides, foreign but not entirely unfamiliar.

Eskel was no church boy – he knew lust and he knew temptation, but this – this was something else entirely. Triss was danger in livery of innocence, and her eyes were as soft as they were cutting.

It was all the more made perilous by the fact that she was obvious about it – she often wore that duality proudly; something he had initially failed to account for when he watched her back in the Keep. He had always been careful not to get too close, respecting her, recognizing that she was not like many other mages, yet in many ways he’d realized she was exactly the same.

She was manipulating him, and he was conscious of it; but he wouldn’t let himself be made into a fool – he had been affording her this comfort the whole time, this freedom to test the waters and risk sinking.

He had grown tired of her subtle prodding – less abrasive than Yennefer’s but shrouded in mystery all the same.

“Careful, Merigold,” he warned, pointedly using her last name, his voice stripped of humor. “Don’t push it.”

Triss’s eyes flashed, and she untangled the ribbon from her fingers, holding it loosely before the light breeze carried it away from her hold, into the dark.

Eskel took in the sight of her, uninhibited and as expressive as always. She hadn’t known his limits before – but she was finally getting a feel for them just then.

Still looking at him with that gaze, stoking at the emotion which had clawed its way up into his head, burning through his eyes as he stared back, she fluttered her eyelids and clasped her hands together. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Somehow, Eskel strongly doubted that.

...


	2. keeping the peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss sought out that vivacious warmth Eskel always exerted, only matched by the man she could now no longer ever see or touch or talk to. She sought out to feel again, anything other than the numbness that had, uninvited, swamped at the space within her. And most of all, amidst this pitiable mess of sentiments and experiences, she had missed him.
> 
> She had missed Eskel and his simplicity.
> 
> And her resolve, as if woven in gossamer, was rapidly crippling as she wondered if he had ever found himself, even for a moment, in all the time they had been apart and lost to each other, feeling the same.

The shadow of a single flame dancing maniacally on the wall had managed to grasp Triss Merigold’s attention fully – so fully, in fact, that she failed to take notice of another entering the dark room until the click of heels on stone became so deafening it started echoing in her own head.

With a deep breath and a silent prayer, she brought her hands together, fidgeting, and turned around.

“Of all the rooms in this castle, only you could choose the most dull and plain-looking hole between walls, Triss.”

Philippa Eilhart, clad in a silver embroidered doublet and form-fitting, black regal pants, raised a fine brow and slowly came to a halt in front of the wooden desk.

Stacks of parchment and open books lay scattered and untouched in what appeared to be, judging from the collecting dust upon them, a very long time.

Philippa paid no mind to them as she spread out her arms and placed them on the desk, staring down at Triss in a manner not dissimilar to how Tissaia used to look at her when she was merely a student at the Academy.

Scolded for her experimental spell casting and herb mixing. She was fueled by ambition then, driven by dreams of influential postings and opportunities to alter the course of history.

Now those very same opportunities brought her more headaches than fulfillment.

She did not shy away from Philippa’s pointed gaze. The times when just a measly look by the older sorceress could intimidate her to the point of submission had long passed them by; all dust in the wind.

There was little about those years that Triss longed for, but the things she did miss – naivety, innocence and hope – were luxuries she could hardly afford anymore.

That was of course not to say that Triss did not still regard the other sorceress with spades of fear – it would be laughable to do otherwise. Philippa Eilhart was arguably the most influential and dangerous person in the whole of the Continent, and Triss had enough sense of mind not to dismiss that.

Even more importantly, she also had a bucketful of experiences with the other woman to back the sentiment up.

 _No,_ Triss thought, _it would do no good to dismiss that at all._

“It’s quiet here,” Triss sighed and stated simply.

Philippa rolled her eyes, exasperated. “If it’s to indulge in your flair for melodramatics that you came here, Triss, I suggest you show yourself out. I am far too preoccupied with trying to keep the Continent afoot to accommodate you.”

But boundless subordination was not on the cards, either.

“I see. Is there another royal dress you need to sneak your hand under in the name of the Lodge, patiently awaiting you upstairs?”

Philippa, seemingly unphased by the quip, smirked. “Jealousy is not becoming of mages with standing such as ours, young one.”

Triss scoffed, unwilling to entertain Philippa even for a moment.

It had been a short while since they had last seen each other, yet Triss felt as if it had been an eternity and then some.

She had arrived here with barely any inhibitions, and little caution reserved in the back of her mind. She remembered the time when Yennefer had tried to reach out to her and she had idly watched by as Philippa tore any ounce of rapport between the two friends to pieces. 

She remembered it and hot anger burned in her lungs, not at Philippa, but at herself.

“It is _pity_ I feel for the girl – whoever she may be – not jealousy.” It was a risky line she was teetering on.

She recognized the gall in her voice yet could not stop it from seeping into her words. She had grown fatigued and weary of such conversations.

They reminded her of a grim reality she had been desperately struggling to defy for the better part of her life: political leverage in lieu of happiness, pleasures of the flesh in lieu of love.

It was a game she was inured to, and she loathed it. It was sucking the life out of her, slowly and torturously, as it had done to so many before her, but she did not know of any way to prevent it from happening that didn’t include sacrificing everything she had ever strived to accomplish in this world.

Bitterness and accusation must have also trickled into her tone, because no sooner had Triss spoken than a sharp, menacing emotion simmered in Philippa’s dark eyes.

Anyone else would have cowered at the sight of it, but Triss knew better – she knew intimately and with utmost certainty that the second she let it overwhelm her, _that_ was when Philippa would truly unleash her worst self.

She was most cutting when she knew there would be no opposition.

Triss maintained eye contact while heeding the unspoken warning silently. “Regardless,” she started again, her voice softer, ready to move on from the topic, “you are right, I did not travel all this way to jest.”

Whatever it was that had burst through the seams in Philippa’s eyes, was pushed back almost instantly.

“Very well.” Philippa’s face dropped any hint of emotion. “And why, then, did you come here Triss Merigold?”

Triss averted her eyes, fidgeting. She took a step back and swallowed heavily, knowing this next part would not sail smoothly.

Her minute confidence was fast fading.

“I…” Triss paused, trying to hide her brewing trepidation. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

It was raining outside despite it being summer – and her limbs felt cold, despite the candle-light and the warmth of the castle engulfing her, but somehow Philippa’s empty laugh felt even colder.

“First you accuse me of philandering, yet in the very next breath you seek the Lodge’s aid,” she said, her eyes flashing with equal measures of amusement and danger.

Triss had known she ought to tread carefully; to overestimate any influence she had on the other sorceress could prove lethal. In truth, it was much easier to assume and believe she had none.

She had neither needed nor wanted to know if her assumption was correct, lest deeper, darker threads of secrets and feelings she had not dwelled on in decades resurfaced and suffocated her.

Triss exhaled slowly, raising her chin. She stared at Philippa from under her eyelashes with a well-practiced expression of boldness. In reality, she felt anything but.

“You misunderstand me, Philippa,” she stated, stressing the pronunciation of the other woman’s name.

“And you mistake me for some unassuming simpleton, _Triss._ Now, get on with your plea; my patience is thinning.”

Had it been less important, what Triss was about to request, she would have grimaced at Philippa’s choice of words.

She had deluded herself into believing she _could_ come out of this exchange with her dignity and integrity intact, but Philippa had managed to pierce through the thin veil of self-confidence she’d worn for the evening and remind her of her place.

Alas, this _was_ , in fact, important, so Triss gulped down her pride and her shame, and leaned forward, hands clasped together tightly in front of her.

If she had to plead, she would plead.

“You do misunderstand me. It is not the Lodge’s favor I’m pursuing,” she finally murmured with dulcet tones after a beat of silence, in fear of disturbing the illusion of peace and calm that had blanketed the room and the whole world. “It is yours, and yours alone.”

Philippa, who had been anticipating the other shoe to drop with calculating eyes and pursed lips, betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

The single candle light was still flickering between them, and melted drops of wax were dripping to the bottom of the candle holder.

It was cheap - nothing like the golden candelabra adorning the rest of Montecalvo’s halls - and it looked like a tumbling tower, destined for doom.

In a few hours, it would dissolve into nothingness, forgotten in this dusty, abandoned room. It would serve its purpose – however minimal and short-lived – and then it would cease to exist.

One sympathized.

“I want your contacts in Kovir,” Triss said. She was not looking at Philippa, but at the candle. The flame reminded her of another, brighter inferno. “I need someone found.”

“The witcher is dead, Triss.”

A sharp pain shot up her stomach and gripped her heart.

No one had uttered the words, yet. They all knew and they all grieved, but none had voiced it.

Triss had not expected to be confronted with it, especially not by Philippa – at least not before she had had the chance to come to terms with it herself. It sounded foreign and surreal.

She hated it. Her meticulously crafted façade cracked slowly and then all at once.

Whatever careful plan she had devised to face Philippa that night quickly dissipated in her mind.

Triss felt the onslaught of unearthed emotion crawl up her throat and quickly turned to the side, her loose hair whipping about, a short, frustrated snarl coming through.

She took a step back. “Must you always be like this?”

“Honest?”

“ _Tactless_ ,” she gasped out in scathing tone. Her eyes were burning and her breath was quick.

To hell with etiquette; she cursed and stared up at the ceiling in an attempt to pull herself together and not grab the nearest leather-bound book to whack Philippa with.

The other woman shook her head with a sneer and waved her hand away dismissively.

“All this...” she gesticulated, as if disgusted, “ _sentiment,_ for a man who would rather get stepped on by the most vindictive mage in the Continent than have you, Triss?” Philippa mocked. “How wasteful.”

It was a biting remark, aimed with precision. But Triss had heard far worse from that very mage whom she actually considered to be a _friend,_ so she was not too perturbed.

Hands on hips, she laughed a watery laugh without humor and shook her head in disbelief. “You would have me shrug it all off and deprive myself of any emotion instead. End up so miserable and devoid of any sympathy that I could guiltlessly build an empire atop the remains of all those I betrayed and used and _toyed_ with in the process.” Triss spat, staring only at the cobwebs at the upper corner of the room. She wiped the few stubborn tears from her eyes. “How unoriginal.”

She was fully aware none of this was helping her cause, nor would it truly affect Philippa, at the end of the day. She ultimately directed her acerbic glare at the other woman regardless.

Philippa didn’t grace her with an answer. Her arms were now sitting crossed on top of her chest, and her lips hinted at an amused smirk.

Triss’s internal turmoil and spiteful observations appeared to merely fascinate her.

There was something else there, too. It was not often someone dared to call her out, much less someone like Triss, who no doubt was rumored to be, amongst the Lodge, the most subservient.

Triss had long disabused herself of the notion that others could comprehend just how complex her loyalties were. She did not blame them.

Philippa, though, had always been very much conscious of Triss’s unrest, and had always used it to her full advantage.

To then see the young woman who had, in earlier years, many a times moaned and begged for Philippa’s ministrations in the obscurity of private meetings and dark chambers, so passionately attempt to stand up to her, must have awakened something… _else,_ within her.

Triss recognized the look.

She ignored it.

“It is not Geralt I want to find.” Triss finally declared, jaded from the direction their conversation took and eager to get it over with. In this battle of insults she had somehow managed to, even for a brief second, gain a moment of respite because of Philippa’s slight captivation, and she took it unreluctantly.

“Not Yennefer either,” she continued, making sure to pre-empty that thought for fear that it could leave Philippa’s head in such vicious an articulation as previously. “It is another.”

At this, the other woman tilted her head, her brows shooting up. Triss’s eyes fluttered and she licked her lips, tasting salt.

“And who might that be?”

Triss put a finger on the desk and drew an abstract shape out of dust. Finally, she looked up and crossed her arms, not finding any reason in delaying the reveal.

“Another witcher,” she confided.

Philippa’s interest was piqued. It was a small win. After some moments of palpable tension, and a few more beats of silence, she hummed. With only a look and no words, she signaled towards the door.

Triss was hard-pressed to do anything but follow, readying herself for the next phase.

“His name?” Philippa asked as she reached for the door’s hinges.

“…Eskel.”

On their way out, Philippa motioned absent-mindedly with her hand and Triss looked over her shoulder in time to see the candle’s light vanish, as if it had never really been there at all.

...

Summer was easing into autumn, and Triss found herself enjoying the slight breeze that came along, tangling up her hair and creasing her favorite dresses.

The change of ambience was very welcome, as she had grown sick and weary of the joy and happiness accompanying the summertime – it hardly matched her own mood.

A fortnight ago, during her brief stay at Ellander, she had decided to stroll around the flea market set up by the passing merchants of Carreras.

They needed only a few days more to reach Vizima, and any additional coin they could make on the road would help sustain them for the rest of their taxing journey. Triss had thought she could somehow contribute; buy some eucalyptus, or perhaps some knitbone for her potions at home.

But within a few paces, she had come to realize that it would be no peaceful stroll. Children were skipping around the tables, throwing pebbles and dirt at each other.

Old women with calloused, wrinkly hands on their waists shouted after them, and the dirt tracks were filled with lingering stray dogs, waiting to grab a bite of whatever they caught a whiff off. It had been a boisterous atmosphere, and the fact that everyone seemed _pleased_ despite it had made it harder for Triss to stay on her way to the herbalist.

She had had to pinch the waist of her dress to make sure the hem wouldn’t drag through the mud, and her other hand had come up in a subtle gesture to cast a weak odor-deadening spell.

These youngsters had been sweating from exercise and cheerfulness, their laughs and squeals unruly.

Triss’s insides had only twisted further at the sound.

When was the last time she had felt this way? So lighthearted and full of enthusiasm, ready to hit the ground running? When was the last time she had smiled without concealed agendas and without purpose?

To laugh because the feeling was simply swelling inside her stomach, unstoppable as it bubbled its way up her throat – it was a frill, a luxury.

These children were wealthier than her in a manner their tiny brains could not yet comprehend. They were wealthy in spirit, soul and will to live.

It was a currency she had long ran out of.

...

It was neither thrilling nor entirely unpleasant news to receive information about Lambert’s whereabouts before even getting a smidgen of it about Eskel’s.

Triss had been convinced she would most likely hear nothing from Philippa at all, so when the other woman appeared one day in the outskirts of Maribor, of all places, unannounced and with irritation etched on her face, Triss was near positive it was a dream.

“Ugh,” Philippa grunted, approaching the old pavilion Triss had found shelter under against the pelting rain. It was always pouring when they saw each other. “Rain.” She hissed, as if she could terrorize it into non-existence.

Triss did not think it impossible.

“Philippa,” she exhaled, both excited at and dreading the other’s sudden appearance.

Philippa, who was now standing a few paces away from her, finally acknowledged her.

“Triss. Why must you always sulk in the most dreadful of places? This forsaken structure looks as if it could fall apart any moment now.”

Triss, despite herself, chuckled. “Philippa Eilhart, leader of the Great Lodge of Sorceresses and most powerful sorceress in the Continent, brought to peril by falling boulders,” she quipped, still smiling. “Sounds like one of Jaskier’s tales.”

Philippa did not seem entertained.

In turn, Triss’s brief show of happiness slowly faded, and she looked back out towards the fields of Maribor.

“I will be brief,” Philippa started, and she briskly walked over to where Triss was leaning against the banister. “As I’m sure you can imagine, I did not portal all the way out to this ghastly locale just to see you. I have far more significant affairs to tend to, and I would appreciate it if we didn’t needlessly tarry.”

Triss nodded. “Understood.”

“The witcher you are searching for has not been spotted once around Lan Exeter. There is nothing to suggest he was ever even close to Kovir to begin with,” Philippa asserted matter-of-factly. She looked down at her nails indifferently. “Whoever it was that gave you that impression succeeded in misleading you.”

Triss sensed that was not the end of it, and thus refrained from revealing that in fact, no one had given her any hint as to where Eskel may be.

She had been so desperate to find him that she had used all of her remaining pull in the Northern Kingdoms to track him down. When those frantic attempts had proven unfruitful, she had decided to spare no favor and had turned to Philippa.

The latter did not need to be aware of said desperation.

“Nonetheless, I do believe there may be something else of interest for you there,” Philippa concluded and turned her gaze up, her eyes fleeting between Triss’s own, her face unreadable. “It took no less than five full purses of gold and some of the finest Everluce the Continent has ever seen for me to be able to share this information with you, Triss Merigold.”

Triss’s lip ticked in humor and she shot Philippa a sideways glance. “Your generosity never ceases to astonish me, Philippa.”

Fleetingly, she saw amused crinkles around Philippa’s eyes, but she might have imagined it with how abruptly she shifted back to her typical, blank demeanor.

Seconds later, she felt rather than saw Philippa’s proximity, the ever so steady and soothing rhythm of her breathing; the intensity of her eyes as they scoured Triss’s profile in search of Gods know what.

Triss blinked slowly and turned, accepting this for what it was : a command.

Up close, Philippa’s eyes were ten times more daunting than usual. “My generosity does not come without a price, Triss.” Philippa asserted with a lower voice, and if Triss’s imagination stretched itself wide enough, she could almost discern an apologetic lilt to Philippa’s voice.

But that was all it was; her imagination.

Philippa had never apologized once in her life.

“Is it truly generosity at all, then?” Triss whispered, but she knew the challenge was futile.

Philippa hummed, mulling it over _. It is only pretense_ , Triss thought. Philippa always knew what to reply with before anyone had even given her incentive to.

“It is generosity that I have not enquired as to why you are so pathetically concerned with the whereabouts of yet another vagrant, and it is, of course, generosity that I stood to hear your frenetic pleas in the first place.” She stated. Her eyes didn’t leave Triss’s. “It is _generosity_ , Triss Merigold, that I am presently in this foul place, discussing said vagrant with you, instead of a sensational banquet where I would surely have the finest glass of wine resting on one hand and an all-too-willing cunt trembling on the other.”

Triss swallowed.

Philippa had turned the tables on her once again. She shook her head, disinclined and unprepared to play this game.

There was no substance to Philippa’s crudeness – only a means to entertainment for the older woman. She had always enjoyed putting strain on Triss’s comfort zone. It was her way of maintaining the upper hand, and as a tactic it was as straightforward as it was efficient.

Triss looked away. “What do you want?” She asked, cutting to the chase.

She could feel the weight of the other woman’s stare; she could feel the heat of it creep up her arms and to the back of her neck, where goosebumps had started to form.

From the corner of her eye, Triss could see the distinct image of power in Philippa’s stance, in the way that she was relaxed yet alert, her shoulders set but not tense.

She was certain of Triss’s loyalty, had discounted her as a potential threat.

“I don’t know yet,” Philippa spoke with a seemingly open tone, but Triss shifted sharply. She would sooner be convinced that pigs grew wings than believe Philippa hadn’t already mapped out the next few decades in her head.

“Don’t lie to me,” Triss demanded, suddenly feeling dangerously like a puppet Philippa picked up and then discarded much-too-easily every once in a while. “I’d venture I am at the very least worthy of your honesty, Philippa. You have never once shied away from making requests, so why start now?”

“I have never once _shied away_ \- period, young one.”

“Answer my question.”

Philippa’s lips twitched. “It’d do you some good to remember who’s the one in need of favors here, Triss Merigold.”

Triss scoffed, brushing away an errant strand of hair from her face. “I’m not forgetting. How could I? You remind me at every turn.”

Her tone was short; shorter than it ought to be, considering it would trouble Philippa not one bit to withhold the rest of the information, end this conversation and leave Triss with a whole load of nothing.

But she was feeling daring – more so than usual now that she knew that the information she could miss out on was not Eskel’s actual location.

“You’ve suddenly grown quite the spine, haven’t you, Triss?” Philippa asked, neither angry nor pleased; merely curious. She sized Triss up with her eyes, her lips pursed. “Or perhaps it’s camouflaged idiocy. I’ve always found the line between the two is nearly negligible.”

Triss stared back, uninhibited. She smiled bitterly and leaned in to the point where she could count the faint freckles across Philippa’s cheeks if she really put her mind to it.

“Would you rather I fall on my knees and beg, _Lady Philippa_?” She asked. “Is that what you want?”

Philippa licked her lips but her gaze didn’t falter. In the brief, tense silence that followed, Triss realized that the question might have taken the other woman aback, if such a thing was even conceivable, and reveled in its rarity.

She hadn’t done this in a while; attempting to exploit the only two of Philippa’s weaknesses that she had ever been privy to – women and sex.

It felt good to know she could still manage.

Smugness apparently seeped into her expression, because within a moment, Philippa hummed, amused. “No, young one,” she murmured, still pinning Triss to the spot with her gaze. “That’s not what I want.

Triss’s brow furrowed.

“A witcher was captured and thrown into Koviri cells two fortnights ago. One of my contacts got close enough to ask for a name; he ended up with a broken nose instead.” Philippa finally confided. “You might be surprised to learn that a man can indeed recall with meticulous detail something other than the last time his prick felt warmth : the face of a man who broke his fragile ego.”

Triss nodded, swallowing hard. “No scars?”

“None,” Philippa confirmed. “Though evidently, a telltale wolf medallion was hanging around his neck.”

Triss shook her head, looking away. No scars, short temper, and a mean punch. It must have been “…Lambert.” She breathed. It wasn’t what she sought, but a step forward in the right direction.

Philippa, to her credit, could not appear to care less. She merely patted down her doublet and stepped away, looking out to the vast land in front of them.

“Thank you,” Triss hesitated, but when Philippa failed to acknowledge her sincerity she extended her hand, loosely wrapping it around the other woman’s wrist. “Really.”

Philippa leveled her glare on the hand touching her, but didn’t move. In what Triss meant as both an act of defiance and a concentrated effort to be earnest, she also didn’t move.

As frustrating and arduous her meetings with the other woman always turned out to be, she was still thankful that she had someone to turn to, and if she were being honest, she was especially thankful that someone was _Philippa._

Philippa was the only other one that knew her as intimately as the two who had departed. Other than her, who had been left who could recognize Triss from a crowd?

Who could tell a full, honest story about her around a bonfire after she was gone?

It was a morbid realization, and after a deliberate pause, Triss finally pulled away for good.

She thought it might be _him._ But even if she found him, what would she say?  
  
How was she to tell Eskel that she had thought of him every other night for the past few months now? How was she to look at him and not come undone at once, smothered by anger and longing and grief?

How was she to look at him at all, without thinking of another, of another’s gentle eyes and rare, kind smiles?

She needed to hear Eskel’s reassuring voice, to see the permanent scars on his face and the determined set of his shoulders. His false, settled apathy towards everything around him, up until it mattered most (or until it just _mattered_ ) when he would let a pine needle made of emotion rip at the careful line of stitching he had created around his heart and his soul.

She ached for the familiarity of it all, and she ached to be near someone who had known Geralt so closely, so well. So much better than she had had the time to.

Triss sought out that vivacious warmth Eskel always exerted, only matched by the man she could now no longer ever see or touch or talk to.

She sought out to _feel_ again, anything other than the numbness that had, uninvited, swamped at the space within her. And most of all, amidst this pitiable mess of sentiments and experiences, she had missed him.

She had missed Eskel and his simplicity.

And her resolve, as if woven with gossamer, was rapidly crippling as she wondered if he had ever found himself, even for a moment, in all the time they had been apart and lost to each other, feeling the same.

...

“Oh _you_ have some _fucking nerve_ , don’t you, witch?”

So perhaps she _had_ been expecting a stunned expression at the least – an annoyed one at most.

Maybe that’s why when Lambert snorted dryly at the sight of her instead, his eyes narrowing in nothing but pronounced disdain, she felt her shoulders drop, her spirit crushed at once.

Some animosity towards her was warranted, surely, but this was something else entirely. It was resentment she identified that was ablaze in his cat-like eyes, not surprise, and it threw her off to the point that she felt her stomach stir in displeasure.

“Lambert,” she bit the inside of her gum, resting her crossed palms on her abdomen. “A pleasure as always.”

“Sod off, Merigold.”

Triss ground her teeth together as Lambert pushed off the prison bars he had been leaning against, retreating to the other side of his cell, where darkness prevented her from pinpointing his exact facial expressions.

He looked haggard and a bit gaunt, as if he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. His arms were covered in welts, and he only wore a white, half-torn, plain looking shirt over some linen pants.

She carefully controlled her face against the impulse to show sympathy. It was the last thing Lambert would want and the first thing to get her immediately kicked out.

“How long have you been here?” She asked, daring to take a step closer to the cell.

Lambert scoffed. “Which part of ‘sod off’ wasn’t clear enough?”

“You’re right, forgive me,” Triss started, her own patience steadily lessening by the second, “let me just go back out and inform the guards that all the commotion I caused to get in here was, in fact, for a ten-word exchange with you.”

Lambert vacantly glared back. “Well I’m not stopping you, am I?”

Exasperated, Triss ran a hand through her hair and moved forward, procuring a key from under the stitch of her cloak.

Whatever voice in her head had managed to convince her that this – riding here to speak with Lambert face to face – had been a reasonable idea, was now cowering away in a deep corner of her mind, where it should have stayed in the first place.

It had been a long and strenuous journey to Kovir – but one she had elected to undertake in any case instead of expending her magic on a portal. She had had enough foresight to predict that her energy could come in much handier upon arrival; namely when speaking with the pot-bellied guards at the gated entrance of Lan Exeter’s cells.

It took a premeditated amount of groveling and the aid of some tongue-loosening spells to acquire the key she was currently clutching in her palm. Triss did not embark on such endeavors lightly or just for anyone, and it was clear Lambert wasn’t really fully appreciating that bit.

It was vexing.

“Has anyone ever praised your unparalleled charms, Lambert?” She retorted dryly, edging closer with her eyes on the heavy metal bolt securing the cell. She could manage; the mechanism seemed rusty and a tad heavy to turn for her small hands, but she had seen much worse.

Kovir, though known for its capable metallurgists and skilled academics, was not a pioneer in terms of penal institutions. Elsewhere in the Continent, Triss had found herself inside an underground dungeon as it was being built in the hollow of some scarps near the sea, where the sound of fast approaching, manic waves were sure to impel any poor man head-first into lunacy. In Temeria, she had stood over a dozen men as they were flung below the earth, in the blackness of an oubliette, where no exit was discernible in its vast extent other than the very trapdoor they had sealed shut next to her. She had heard the gristliest men wail and futilely beg for undeserved forgiveness at the sight of it.

These flimsy metal bars paled in comparison.

Mm.

“Routinely.” Lambert sneered.

Triss lifted a well-shaped brow as she fiddled with the lock. The metal was corroded around the edges of the key-hole, and some part of the mechanism was mal-aligned. If only someone could press the back of the latch upwards from the other side… No. She would fare well by herself. At least some element of this encounter had to be controlled entirely by her..

She pressed her lips together and tried to slink her hand between the bars towards the back of the bolt.

“Women?” She asked.

“Wenches, mainly.”

Triss nodded in ersatz compassion. “Predictable.” Her fingers were just short of their goal.

“Oh?” Lambert asked, eyebrows meeting his receding hairline, tone as sarcastic as ever. “How so?”

“Only such poor maids wouldn’t know better than to assume a man like you is the finest the Continent has to offer.” She brought her cheek to the bar in an attempt to fit more of her arm in between the small space, but to no avail.

With a huff, Triss pulled back and stretched out the discomfort off her hand, frowning at the offending item in front of her. Why did the darned bolt have to be so long?

“A man like me?” asked Lambert, his voice dipping into a different emotion altogether. “Last I checked, a man like me was very much the type of man lassies of _your_ kind backstabbed each other for, Merigold.”

Triss’s eyes shot up sharply. “I wouldn’t so much as nick another person with a needle over you, Lambert, still less backstab.”

“I _know._ ” Lambert got up, his face coming out of the penumbras of the dark corner of the cell. “So why don’t you cut the little charity act and just tell me what the hell you’re doing here.

She sighed, staring him down. “Is it not obvious?”

Lambert shook his head, scoffing. “No, not this,” he nodded at the bolt. “That’s not _why_ you’re here, is it?”

The silence between them outstretched and settled forcefully, overlaying the room uncomfortably. Despite her distaste for him, Triss did not want to undermine his intelligence. Lambert seemed like a somewhat observant man, and pretending that he was not correct about her intentions would do nothing but a disservice to her cause.

“I’m looking for Eskel,” she finally breathed, closing her eyes and digging her nail into the flat of her palm.

She heard the exhaled laugh before she opened her eyes to see it.

“Wow,” Lambert said, “you’ve really sunk low, haven’t you, Merigold?”

Triss gulped down any lingering emotion in her throat, and softly shook her head, staring down at the unused key in her grip.

“Do you want your freedom, or not?” She asked weakly, weary of where the conversation was headed.

Lambert leaned heavily against the bars, close to Triss’s face. His fists closed around the metal, right hand under the bolt, which Triss had so valiantly taken upon herself to unlock a few moments ago.

The light in the room reflected off his golden eyes, and the shadows cast on his features made him appear leaner than usual. From up close, he looked as intimidating as he looked vulnerable, Triss thought. It was unnerving.

“Not so much as to be willing to throw another one of my mates into a witch’s claws, no.” Lambert spat.

Triss felt the minute urge to clamor for an answer, to compel it out of him, but it was quickly overtaken by the irredeemable sense of sorrow and dread.

It knocked her off balance, unexpectedly, the realization that she was unwanted and unwelcome in his eyes – it pervaded her body and her thoughts, as she stood there, still in the face of Lambert’s candor.

The feeling was so unrelieved; that she had no place to look for Eskel, that she had no place to be _there,_ in that moment. It was wedged in her throat and sheening her eyes – the luster unmistakable.

In their eyes, she was just another mage, tangled in the mess of webs that had lead to their brother’s decease.

The tears pooled in her eyes before she could stop them, and Triss took a step back, glancing down at her feet. It must have stunned him too, the consequence of his frankness glaring back at him, because after a while, his harsh gaze faltered, shoulders dropping.

He didn’t apologize, though, and she didn’t expect him to.

Heaving another sigh (she seemed to be doing that a lot, lately) and biting back an embarrassing amount of emotion threatening to escape the confines of her chest, Triss waved her hand away, tensing in exhaustion, and suddenly the bolt unhinged, breaking.

She felt weak at the knees, like even this small motion had spent her after her trip and her generous use of magic at the entrance and the fight against the prostrating foe taking shape in her own Feelings.

She did not utter a word. Instead, she took a deep breath and gathered herself, shaking off the impending sense of gloom that had engulfed her.

With a terse nod and hand through her tresses, Triss, refusing to send another look in Lambert’s direction for fear of what may meet her there, turned around and slowly tottered to the door.

It was with a hand on the hinge and a nakedness of her inner turmoil shadowing her features that she halted her movements at the abrupt, unforeseen sound of Lambert’s voice.

“Merigold,” he stated, not too far behind. “Wait.”

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative chapter titles :  
> "Prison cells are something that can actually be so personal"  
> "Florida man struggles to write a single paragraph without angst"


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